


Sunday

by dollface



Series: Daydream [2]
Category: All Time Low, Tonight Alive
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-09
Updated: 2014-04-09
Packaged: 2018-01-18 18:11:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1437799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollface/pseuds/dollface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>sunday<br/>/ˈsʌndeɪ,-di/<br/>the day of the week before monday and following saturday, observed by christians as a day of rest and religious worship and (together with saturday) forming part of the weekend.</p><p>God, you’re still so, so beautiful. So beautiful it hurts. I can trick myself, you know. That what’s happening is real. But then I wake up from my dream. My shoes are next to the bed, and I leave you, like you’re some cheap whore.</p><p>And then I come back again the next night. Your now – blonde hair obscures my vision at what’s assumed to be the best of times, and lucky for me at those times I don’t really want to see your face. You don’t care, so why should I?</p><p>But Jenna, I still don’t know what I’d say if I had you.</p><p>And that is a big problem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Tales Lost on Faraway Thoughts

The clock struck two in the morning and I groan, rolling over onto my back, letting go of your bare hip.  
  
“Leave.” You say, snuggling deeper under the covers, pulling up the thin sheet to cover your body. “I’ll call you tomorrow.” I rake my fingers through my hair, swinging my legs over the side of the bed. The moon is almost full, casting long shadows on the ground below. Slipping my jeans and shirt back on, I stand and turn, placing a kiss on your forehead. There is no snappy reply or snarky comment this time; you’ve already fallen asleep, your face slack and relaxed. A light snore is emitted and I take that as my cue to leave. I lace up my shoes and pad downstairs, retrieving my car keys from the kitchen and taking an ice cube from the freezer while I’m at it.  
  
The ice melts as I sit it in my mouth, letting the cool temperature clear my head. My fingers rake through my hair again, and I exit the house, my spare keys in hand. I lock the door, walking down the icy path to my car, almost slipping over. As I leave, I spare a glance at your window. The light is on.  
  
Flash forward two weeks and I’m in the same position, except this time I’ve fallen asleep in your bed – you didn’t get a chance to throw me out. My conscious has been weighing down on me for months now. I shouldn’t be doing this; it’s not right. My eyes flutter open and I blink the dirt from them, my hand reaching up to assist. I reach out and my hand meets empty space. Your warm body isn’t lying next to mine like I hoped it would be. I’m still naked under the covers, and I get out of bed, pulling on my boxers and yanking the sheets off of the bed. I deposit them on the landing, the blinding white against the tan carpet making a nice contrast. Innocence of the white, and the filth of the tan. I wish I had stayed innocent, and never taken your shirt off or played strip ‘n sip snap or allowed myself to accept your offer despite you lying to me. That’s what had gotten me into this filthy, tan mess. I walk downstairs and reach the lounge where you’re splayed, a blanket covering your body.  
  
“Wake up,” my voice is too loud for this morning; way, way too loud. I pad over to you. “Jenna? Wake up.” I nudge your shoulder and you grumble.  
  
“Fuck off, would you? I’m trying to sleep.” You shift under the plaid blanket, huddling closer to yourself, generating heat. You huff, and clench your eyes shut. “Why are you still here, anyway? I thought I told you to leave.”  
  
I do as you say, walking into the kitchen. It’s never a good idea to wake you up – I don’t know why I even attempt to. The sun filtering in from the window hits the white tiles, just like it did oh so many months ago. I retrieve a frying pan and eggs from the fridge, shuffling around in the pantry for oil. I start cooking the eggs, the sizzling and snapping sound filling the quiet morning. It feels nice, almost homely. Like I’m not just a friend with benefits. Like we’re something more. I sigh. That will never happen.  
  
As I’m cooking, I feel two arms wrap around my waist and a head lay itself on my shoulder. “Hey you,” you say, “I’m sorry about,” you pause, yawning, “earlier.”  
  
I smirk and reply with, “It’s okay. Do you want to get the toast ready?”  
  
“No,” you say, but do it anyway. “Butter on yours?”  
  
“Please. How many eggs do you want?”  
  
“Just the one.” I crack another egg into the pan, flipping the other two. You slide the plates over to me and nod when I point the spatula at your egg in a ‘like that?’ gesture. We sit at the table and scarcely a word passes between us. Finishing my breakfast, I put the dishes next to the sink and go back upstairs to put on my clothes.  
  
“See you later, Jen.” You call out a goodbye and I finally exit the house, the door shutting behind me with a hollow thud.  
  
I didn’t return to your house for another few days. I didn’t answer your calls or your text messages. You finally come over to my house, trying to find me. Truth be told, the week and a half we spent apart was beneficial for me. I turned up to work on time and stayed on task, your long, pale limbs not climbing into my mind and ensnaring themselves, resulting in creating a mess of my thoughts. I sobered up my act too. I stopped drinking the moment I left your house – I needed to clear the haze in my mind and rid myself of your brown irises swimming in my vision.  
  
My phone was dead the first few days too. Another reason as to why I didn’t answer. My mother called my home phone line and demanded I charge it back up; she had been worrying. She was the only person I came in contact with besides my co–workers and boss.  
  
You really screwed with my mind this time. I was falling deeper into the abyss of your gentle yet firm embrace. I clung to you for all I was worth without a second thought. And your intoxicating scent of fruit infiltrated my system and imprinted itself on my brain. I couldn’t help it when I walked through my front door and walked straight over to the refrigerator and rifled through it, producing a mango. When I inhaled I could smell your hair as I rested my head against yours, faint memories reviving themselves.  
  
I had mulled over the circumstances on the way home, searching deep in them, looking for a flaw, for anything I can use to convince myself to not see you in this way. I threw the mango out, and the few soft berries I found in a plastic container, a few drops of juice lulling themselves into a small pool in a corner.

 


	2. Tales Found in Harsh Realities

When you showed up on my door, your hair wasn’t pure dull blonde. The regrowth was showing through at the roots. I didn’t understand my fascination with your hair completely until that moment. The sun was high in the sky, and the light yellow parts of your hair didn’t shine as well as the brown. You were scowling, and I could only imagine my appearance. I hadn’t bothered to shave, and I hadn’t bothered to put on a shirt either – it was my day off.  
  
“What do you want?” I ask, placing a hand on my hip, the picture of sass that I could be. I had rarely, if ever, directed it at you, however. You simply look up at me, your star burst lashes brushing the bottom of your eyebrows, and say,  
  
“We need to talk.”  
  
I snort, unable to contain myself. I don’t feel like myself, like I’m another Alex. Three choice words leave my mouth – fuck you, bitch – and I slam the door in your face, your shocked expression burned onto my retinas. I turn away without a second glance, not wanting to see your more refined expression of disgust, or anger, feeling dizzy – giddy on my own courage and abrupt decision making. A few slams on the door later and shouts of my name, and you leave. I watch you from the bathroom window, wiping at your face. My heart sinks, and my stomach drops, the reality hitting me all too hard all at once. You pause in your movements, and turn back towards the house. A quick scan and somehow your all – knowing brown eyes meet mine through the lace.  
  
“I’m not coming back – screw you Alex!” You bellow, your voice reaching my ears about a second after the words leave your lips. You spin on your heel, and it’s the final punch. I step backwards and set the shower running, stripping and grabbing my razor from the sink. As soon as the water is warm enough I start scrubbing at my skin with soap, trying to get rid of the grime. I lather my ‘not – quite – a – beard – too – long – to – be – stubble’ and shave it off, scraping the long hair out of the razor with the pad of my thumb.  
  
Exhausted by the hectic, jerky movements I lean against the wall, letting the water trickle over my face. I didn’t have as much pressure as I thought running through the pipes. The water makes a gurgling sound as it goes through the drain – I’ve been meaning to clean it out but haven’t gotten around to it just yet. I spin the taps a few times so that more water comes through and rinse the sheen left from the soap off of myself; the actions are smoother, more relaxing in a way.  
  
By the time I finally leave the shower, its ten o’clock – you left over an hour ago. It’s no longer sunny outside, and as I close the glass door behind me I once again hesitate. I need to re-evaluate, to find out where my emotions truly stand with you, and how far I’m willing to go for my heart.  
  
But all I can picture is you – you in your essence. Your natural coloured hair from a few months ago, the erotic expression on your face from many nights spent alone, all of your curves, from hips to chest and even the delicate concave arc of your spine. Your spindly fingers that are adept at dealing out cards and your powers of persuasion. Your laugh in summer, and the way your tanned skin slowly fades in winter. The passion you pour into singing and the way you stretch out your vowels when you talk.  
  
My stomach clenches as butterflies fill the space – not quite the answer I was looking for but I’ll take it. It’s better than nothing after all. By the time I come to a conclusion – yes, you  _are_  worth the pain you’ve put me through because I’m a lovesick fool, I’ve dried off completely, no need for the aid of a towel. I grab one anyway – force of habit – and run it over my body once. I dress in clean clothes, fresh from my drawers, and dig around under my bed looking for my shoes.  
  
I set off at a brisk pace down the street to your house. I’m hoping the fresh air will do me some good – my decision has nothing to do with the fact that I have no gas in my car either. The air feels heavy, and thick clouds are starting to accumulate in the sky.  
  
I knock on your door a good forty five minutes later. No memories come to mind, only here, only right now – it’s all that matters. You don’t answer – I’m not sure you’re even home. A few specks of rain start to fall and I scowl. I walk next door and ask if they know where you are – you’ve lived in the same house for several years and they know you almost embarrassingly too well; same goes for me. When the older woman who lives there answers and the smile drops off her face I know that something’s wrong. “She’s gone.”  
  
“What do you mean ‘gone’?” The words spill from my lips easily, too easily. She smiles and simply points up at the sky.  
  
“Bought a plane ticket this morning, came around and asked me to keep the mail under control, then left. I figured you’d be around asking questions.”  
  
I nod mutely. You hate flying – so much so that you’d rather swim across the ocean to get to your desired destination. The rain’s only falling harder now, the rhythmic  _pitter patter_  turning into splashes and drumming on the roof.  
  
“Right.”  
  
“Do you want to come inside, dear, out of the rain?” She makes a small gesture as though to invite me inside. I shake my head and bid her goodbye.  
  
I still remember the time you told me you hated planes. It hurts to know that you’d take one, and that I might have been part of the reason to make you. My clothes are drenched by the time I get back home, but I’m okay with it. I dial your number from the home phone and reaching your voice mail is enough to set me over the edge.  
  
“Jenna, please be okay.”


End file.
